If you had to put a price on your brain, how much would it be?Jake Maguire: I honestly don’t know — I don’t necessarily consider myself to be priceless or anything like that, but I am a first-year student at Dartmouth and the sticker price for my education here is about $70,000 per year, so that’s a good place to start.Eliza Jane Schaeffer: The collective value of a group of brains, one from each Dartmouth fraternity.Zach Gorman: About $3.50.Timothy Yang: Priceless — it’s not for sale!Zachary Benjamin: At least 50 cents — I don’t want to sell myself short.What are you passionate about?JM: I am passionate about improving opportunities for other people, and I also love reading, writing, hanging out with friends, traveling and being outside.EJS: Words.

Preparing for and applying to medical school is a challenging process. This is certainly true at Dartmouth College, where students must complete each of their pre-health requirements during 10-week academic terms. For Nicole Knape ’19, a native of Raleigh, North Carolina who recently finished her coursework for medical school, completing pre-health requirements has been a time-consuming and challenging task.

Imagine what a powerlifter looks like and it is probably someone muscular. Someone whose extraordinary strength shows with every lift, the weights much heavier than the average person could manage. For many, the stereotypical powerlifter is a man.

Approximately three miles north of campus, a little deeper into the peaceful hills of the Upper Valley lies a farm “for the students” that offers an escape from the stress and demands that otherwise define the Dartmouth experience. This is the phrase and idea with which I came into contact multiple times during my conversations with some members of the Dartmouth Organic Farm. “It’s only three miles away, and you can go whenever you want,” Annika Bowman ’21 explained.

I don’t remember when I first read Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House series. I can picture the nine-volume paperback box set, each cover a different pastel gingham, sitting on the lower left of the downstairs bookcases as if it has always been there.

Menstrual stigmas are rooted not in what is said but in what goes unsaid. We encounter them in the silence between words, in the euphemisms that have spilled into our social script to claim a language of their own, reflexive but prosaic.